


it's good when it's not right

by prettylittlementirosa



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Car Sex, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23602261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettylittlementirosa/pseuds/prettylittlementirosa
Summary: What he wants to do is yell at her, lecture her about being out here alone, unprotected, in the freezing cold. Wants to ask her why the hell he had to drive all the way out here on a Friday night, why she thinks she's got any right to be on his damn payroll when she can't even answer her fucking phone.What he wants to do is pull her against him, bury his nose in her neck, feel her pulse under his lips.Feel all the ways she's alive.He keeps his hands in his pockets, sniffs."Didn't know you were Jewish."*for the prompts: If your still taking prompts what about Rio having to interact with Annie or maybe him finding out about Beth's mom. I guess just anything about Beth's family that isn't about Dean xDandBUT WILL BRIO EVER TALK ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED!!1
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Comments: 18
Kudos: 204





	it's good when it's not right

**Author's Note:**

> me: i probably won't write any brio fic  
> me, two days later: ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> anyway, i don't think this requires any specific warnings; it's all pretty canon-typical. it's canon-compliant through 3x08, set somewhere in the not-so-distant future.
> 
> title comes from the song "hope, elizabeth" by colin leonard (how appropriate, i know haha)

He knocks for two reasons. The first— there's no way to break into an apartment unnoticed if someone's already home. He can hear Annie moving around inside and the only way to get in without giving himself away too soon would be to kick in the door. It ain't worth it. The second— he wants to see her short-circuit when she opens the door to find him standing there. She's not expecting him, got no reason to. He always goes to Elizabeth's, always has. At first it just made sense— she had the biggest house, the most vulnerable one, and it was way too easy to slip in through the back, unnoticed.

He _kept_ going to her's because... well.

That's on him.

But she's not answering his calls and she's not responding to his texts and her mama van isn't in the driveway and he really ain't paying her to ignore him. Shit, after everything she's done, the only way he should be paying her is with a bullet right through her cold, unrepentant heart. But that's on him too. 

Instead he's got his hands in his coat pockets, waiting for Annie to open the goddamn door so he can track Elizabeth's ass down, just to listen to whatever Betty-Crocker-But-I-Got-Kids bullshit she's serving today.

He doesn't have time for this.

When the door finally opens, it's not Annie standing on the other side. For a second he thinks he's got the wrong apartment, but the face staring back at him is too intrepid to belong to any one else. And shit, why didn't it occur to him that Annie'd be a mom too? She don't belong to no PTA but neither does he. Judging from the kid looking him up and down right now, she probably got knocked up in high school. And yeah, yeah that makes sense, actually.

He's about to put on his Suburban Smile, the one he knows puts white people at ease, but the kid opens his mouth before he gets the chance.

"Sorry, we're out of toilet paper." It's flat, unimpressed, completely non-sensical, and Rio's got no idea how he's supposed to respond to it, just raises a brow in question. 

The kid rolls his eyes, not necessarily at Rio, more at the universe, the way teenagers do. Hormones and shit.

"Never mind," he says, slinging a backpack over his shoulder. "Just, use a condom."

Rio almost laughs, and damn, it's a shame circumstances are what they are because he likes this kid. If Marcus ever spoke to him like that, he'd be begging to see the light of day, but this isn't Marcus and the thought of this kid giving Annie hell brings him a sort of satisfaction he didn't know he was missing.

Before he slinks past Rio, the kid turns back into the apartment to call out to his mom.

"Dad's downstairs waiting. The door's for you."

He can hear Annie yelling back from one of the bedrooms, something about kids these days and no love for the parents that raised them, but she stops short when she comes out and sees Rio standing there. The sound of her swallowing is audible in the quiet of the apartment and he can see the way her hands shake when her eyes dart past him to where her son just left and shit, he likes scaring her, likes keeping her in her place, but it's not like he's gonna hurt her kid. He's not in the business of kidnapping.

He almost lets her stew in her fear, thinks probably she deserves it. Hell, they all do but it's pointless. She's already scared of him, and this isn't about her anyway.

"I'm looking for your sister," he says, hands still in his pockets. It's the most reassurance he's willing to give her.

She relaxes a little, enough to breathe, but not enough to move from her spot at the edge of the living room.

"She's not here," she says, face scrunched up, pulling the long sleeves of her shirt over her hands. "Did you try her cell?"

"Nah, figured I'd just waste my time and come all the way down here so you and me could catch up."

He steps into her apartment, shutting the door behind him, and she at least has enough sense to understand the tone of his voice means he ain't playing, and he's not in the mood for any bullshit.

"I don't know where she is."

He shrugs, but it's not casual.

"Call her."

He figures Elizabeth might not pick up for him, but she's not gonna leave her little sister hanging. Still, she'd be an idiot to ignore him. He wouldn't put it past her though. She's blocked his number before. The circumstances might've been different but _she's_ not— still thinks she can get away with anything, long as she waves her pinterest mommy privilege in his face and bats her pretty little eyelashes, but it's not like that between them anymore. If he asks her to jump, she better ask how high, just like every other name on his payroll.

Annie at least seems to understand that right now, pulling a phone out of her back pocket, to get her sister on the line.

"Speaker," he commands, and she obeys, holding the phone out between them in her barely-steady hand.

The trilling sound of Elizabeth's phone ringing reverberates through the apartment and at least he knows she hasn't turned it off but he's still about two seconds away from flipping Annie's trash-littered coffee table over. He doesn't have time to be tracking his employees down. When the automated message for her voicemail comes on he snatches the phone out of Annie's hand to end the call and pull up her message history. He can feel the protest on the tip of her tongue and cuts it off with a single look. It's enough for her to drop her gaze to the floor. Too bad her sister ain't that obedient.

The fourth conversation down in her message app is with "Bossy Betch Boland." The name's not clever but he gets it nonetheless. Annie's sent her two texts today. One at 8:17 this morning, confirming her work schedule; the second a few hours ago at 5:36, something about Ed and Rose and shaved legs with too many exclamation points. Elizabeth hasn't responded to either.

He fixes Annie with a gaze, holding the screen up to her face.

"This normal?"

She hesitates, shifts her weight from foot to foot. 

"I mean leg hair on women is natural but I guess some guys-"

Her mouth snaps shut at the pissed off look on his face, and she might be irresponsible, definitely annoying, but he knows she's not this stupid, knows she doesn't really think he's asking her about this dumbass drama, but her shoulders are at her ears and she's ringing her hands in front of her and she still hasn't answered him.

"I don't know what you're asking me," she admits, voice frantic with nerves, and he has to close his eyes.

"Your sister," he grits out. "She usually ignore you?"

Annie shrugs, but it's not indifferent. He can see the wheels spinning behind her eyes, watches as realization dawns that something might be wrong, hears her breathing pick up.

"Find my friend," she blurts out and he raises his brows, waiting for an explanation.

"The find my friend app. It'll show where Beth is."

She reaches for her phone but he steps back, closing out of the messages, to pull up the app. Of course these housewives would be dumb enough to leave their location on. He's gonna have to have a talk with Elizabeth. About a lot of things.

And there she is, her smiling icon placing her right in the middle of...

"A cemetery? Y'all bitches get into grave robbing when I wasn't looking?"

Annie doesn't answer right away; it takes a minute for the confused furrow of her brow to smooth out into something resembling understanding, and that's all the confirmation he needs to know the location is right. He tosses the phone back at her, lets her scramble to catch it.

"Wait–" she tries but he's already got the door open.

"Buy some condoms, yeah?" he says, just to hear her splutter. "Your kid don't trust you."

It feels good to shut the door on her outraged protests but it doesn't take long for irritation to set back in. Hebrew Memorial Park is on the other side of the city; it's gonna take him half an hour just to get out there.

He doesn't have time for this shit.

***

He's not sure what he's expecting to find when he gets there but it's not Elizabeth standing alone in front of a grave, staring blankly ahead. She's got on that ugly pea-green coat she loves so much, hands stashed in the pockets, but she's gotta be freezing. He can't be sure how long she's been out here, just knows it's a lot longer than the ten minutes it took him to get out of his car and find her. She doesn't even blink when he finally does, and if it weren't for the visible puffs of air she exhales, he'd think she'd froze to death standing there like that.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't find it a little unsettling. He's seen her angry, scheming, resigned, laughing. Hell, he even knows what face she makes when she's coming, but he's never seen _this_. All the anger he felt, all the tension that built up on the drive over gets pushed down. It's still there, simmering, but now there's concern there too. And that just makes him angrier, maybe at her, definitely at himself. 

What he should do is put his gun to her temple and pull the trigger. He's pretty sure she wouldn't even flinch, wouldn't try to talk her way out of it, not right now, not like this. It's what he should do.

Instead, he stands next to her, cursing himself for wanting to be near her, for wondering what's going on in her head. He could study her every minute of every day and, still, he doesn't think she'd ever stop confusing him, ever stop surprising him. 

He doesn't have time for this.

And it's not like he's a religious man, not anymore, maybe not ever. He's still got some beads in a drawer somewhere but they don't mean anything, not really, just a relic from his childhood. But the knowledge of what they feel like between his fingers, around his neck, the memory of his mom lighting candles... he understands the significance, even if it's not significant to him. If this is Elizabeth's confession... well, maybe he's earned the right to witness it.

But she doesn't move, doesn't speak, doesn't acknowledge him in any way. She's not even looking at the grave in front of her, the one that tells him Linda Barcus lived from 1954-1999. He doesn't even know if it means anything to her at all, could just be a random grave, just the place her feet stopped moving when her mind checked out.

A shiver runs down his spine and that's it. They can't be out here like this. It's too dark, too cold. He turns to face her, hoping the movement will spur her to action but nothing happens. She's like a ghost, pale skin shining in the moonlight, but completely out of reach. Whatever's happening in her head, it's far away from here. Something in his chest tightens, falls a little, settles right into his stomach. 

"Elizabeth." It comes out softer than he wants it to, always does with her, but then she blinks, and there's life in her eyes again, and when she turns to look at him, she's somehow both surprised to see him and unconcerned that he's standing there next to her, all at the same time.

"What are you doing?" he asks, because he can't bring himself to say the words he really means – _are you okay_ – hates himself for even thinking them.

But if she hears the concern in his voice, sees it written all over his face, she doesn't acknowledge it, just uses her elbow to gesture at the grave in front of her.

"My mom changed back to her maiden name after my dad left," she says, like it's an answer, like this is normal and they're friends.

Like either of them have ever given any piece of themselves over willingly.

Like their edges aren't still jagged and sharp to the touch, from all the different ways they've taken a sledgehammer to this thing between them.

What he wants to do is yell at her, lecture her about being out here alone, unprotected, in the freezing cold. Wants to ask her why the hell he had to drive all the way out here on a Friday night, why she thinks she's got any right to be on his damn payroll when she can't even answer her fucking phone.

What he wants to do is pull her against him, bury his nose in her neck, feel her pulse under his lips.

Feel all the ways she's alive.

He keeps his hands in his pockets, sniffs. 

"Didn't know you were Jewish."

She tilts her head, says, "Well my husband grew up Catholic."

He huffs at that, knows her well enough to know she thinks it's an explanation. Knows it probably is, but that it shouldn't be.

"Yeah, I didn't ask about him though, did I?"

She shrugs, looks down at her mom's grave.

"What are you doing here?"

The first raindrop hits his face as soon as she asks and great, just fucking great. He spent the whole night tracking her ass down, drove all the way out here, just for it to start fucking raining as soon as he finally found her. 

"Let's go," he says, in lieu of an answer, and makes his way back to the parking lot. He doesn't wait to see if she follows but he can hear the soft tread of her boots on the ground behind him, struggling to match his stride. The rain doesn't let up, and each drop that hits him is bigger than the last. By the time he makes it to their cars, parked side by side, it's pouring and his clothes are soaked through. He gets in his Mercedes and slams the door closed, watches her through the windshield as she fumbles her way across the slippery asphalt. For once, she makes the smart decision and goes straight for his passenger door, barely even looking at her own vehicle. At least he doesn't have to get back out to wrangle her in.

He's already got the car on with the heat blasting by the time she shuts the door, and he doesn't wait for her to get situated before he throws it in reverse, backing out to get back on a main road. He drives faster than he needs to – he's got nowhere to be, nowhere besides dealing with his business, his son, his life – but Elizabeth never seems to get that. Never seems to understand that the sun doesn't rise and set on her ass. Hasn't figured out that the world doesn't turn for her.

"Slow down," she says and he laughs. He _laughs_. He's soaking wet and he's gonna have to get his hundred-thirty thousand dollar car detailed so it doesn't smell like mildew and wet dog and she's got the phone she couldn't be bothered to pick up in her hand now, scrolling through all the shit she missed, so yeah, he fucking laughs.

" _Rio_ ," she hisses and it's so different from the last time she said his name, the only other time she's called him that, when his head was between her legs, and she whispered it like a prayer, like something too sacred to be spoken out loud.

Now it just sounds like an accusation.

And he can't take it, yanks the steering wheel over, pulling off to the side of the road, and throws the car in park. 

"Give me your phone," he orders but she just pulls it to her chest.

"No."

"I ain't playin' with you, mama, not tonight. Give me the phone."

"Why?" She leans away from him when she asks it, like she's afraid he's going to snatch it out of her hands, like she's afraid of _him_. And ain't that fucking rich. She's smart in a whole lotta ways that surprise him, but she still hasn't figured out who to be scared of and that's the goddamn problem. It tightens something deep in his chest, and he has to press the heels of his hands into his eyes, just to be able to breathe.

"Your location," he grits out. 

"My–"

"How do you think I found you?" he barks and he can see the moment she gets it but he presses anyway. "What if it wasn't me, huh? You think I'm the only person with a gun you pissed off? You think the feds forgot about you?"

It's a second before she responds, her eyes narrowing when she does.

"Why were you looking for me anyway? The next drop's not for another week."

"Why didn't you answer your phone?"

"I would've called you back," she says, flippant, and he shakes his head.

"That ain't how this works, sweetheart."

She scoffs, phone totally forgotten in her hand.

"You don't own me."

"Yeah, I kinda do."

She splutters at that, like maybe she's forgotten the debt she owes him.

"I can't just drop everything whenever you want me to. I have a job, responsibilities."

She keeps talking, saying all the things she's said a hundred times already, and she still doesn't fucking get it. Still can't seem to grasp what she does or who she is. And it's nothing new, feels like they've had this conversation a million times already, probably'll have it a million times more but there's anger brewing in his chest– the frustration he feels at failing to make her understand, at failing to take care of her is bubbling right to the surface.

"I have a family," she says and it's like lighting a match; his anger turns to white hot fury.

"So do I!" he shouts, slamming his fist down on the console between them.

She reels back, her big blue eyes wide open, and yeah, yeah he's let his emotions get the better of him before, especially when it comes to her, but not like this. His whole body is vibrating with it, the memory of being holed up in that hotel room, not being able to see Marcus, to let him know he was alright, bouncing around in his head. 

She says, "I know," and it just makes it worse.

"Do you?" His fist is still on the console, whole body turned to her, watching her blink once, twice, three times, before she turns her head to look out the window.

"I tried to make it right. I tried– I made sure he was okay."

The worst part is he knows she believes it, that she thinks it makes any difference at all. But she won't even say his son's name.

"Oh yeah?" he asks, and it's enough to get her to look at him again. "And what about next time, huh? You think I don't know what you and your girls been tryna do? How long till you get it right, huh? What happens then?"

He thinks he has her, thinks maybe she'll finally show him a shred of guilt, of regret, of something, anything to let him know she'd do things differently given the chance, but she just throws her hands up wildly, flinging droplets of rain from her jacket everywhere.

"How long till _I'm_ safe?" she cries. "What happen when I'm not useful to you anymore and you–"

"I can't kill you!"

He yells it cause it's true, cause he can't understand how she doesn't get it yet.

Can't sit here listening to all the ways she thinks he's holding her hostage, not while she refuses to take her claws out of _his_ chest.

Except now she's just sitting there staring at him, chest heaving with enough anger to rival his own, but he can see the moment something in her shifts, opens, her gaze searching his, and it feels like the first time in a long time she looking at him like she actually sees _him_.

He swallows, licks his lips, tries not to notice the way her eyes track the movement. Wants to turn away when she drags her gaze back up to meet his, can't do it when it feels like he's being ripped open, like this anger will never go away—

He surges forward before he can stop himself, letting his mouth crash into hers, slips a hand behind her neck, up into her hair, using it to pull her closer. 

There's a moment when she doesn't react at all and it feels like it stretches on forever. He swears he can feel every second of their twisted history hammering in his chest – from the first time he was in her kitchen to the way she was just looking at him – it all plays out in that single suffocating moment that feels like it'll never end.

Then her lips part, igniting everything between them, and he wants _more_. His tongue is in her mouth and his hand is tangled in her wet hair and he's pressing closer, closer, always closer, until he's practically in her lap, center console digging into his stomach. It's desperate the way he needs to feel her against him, the way his hands seek out every inch of exposed skin, just to feel it under his fingertips, and when he can't find enough he's pulling at the buttons of her jacket, pushing fabric off and out of the way until he's got enough of her chest exposed that he can feel her heartbeat against his lips when he presses them there.

It's still not enough.

She pulls him back up to kiss her and he goes willingly, wanting to taste her tongue, feel the way she moans against him when his thumb grazes her nipple. And then her hands are scrambling at his coat, trying to find flesh, and he doesn't want to pull away, doesn't want to take his mouth off her for a single second, but he wants to be able to feel her everywhere. He shrugs out of his jacket, yanks his shirt up over his head, and her hands fly to his chest, and he knows the moment she sees the scars, feels it in the way her fingertips stumble over them–

_Shoulder._

_Lung._

_Spleen._

–and he hopes it breaks something in her, same as she keeps doing to him, but he doesn't give her a chance to recover before he's pushing her back into the seat, leaning over her, one hand fumbling for the lever to recline it all the way, while the other goes for the button of her jeans. 

And then it doesn't take long till he's scrambling over the console to position himself between her pale thighs, shoving his pants and underwear down to line himself up, and when he pushes in, not exactly slow but not quite as rough as he thought he would, it's the pleading look on her face that does him in.

The tiny bit of self-control he's been clinging to flies out the window as he slams his hips into her, feeling how wet she already is for him, maybe not enough, maybe not quite ready, but she pulls him down against the pliant warmth of her body anyway, and he goes, burying his nose in her neck, shifting his hips to thrust into her again and again, harder every time.

There's not much room and the angle's not perfect but when he slides his hands around to her ass, lifting her hips up to meet his, she digs her fingernails into his back, and he knows it's deep enough to draw blood, wants her to.

It's always like this with Elizabeth, too much and not enough all at once. His knees throb where they're slipping at the edge of the seat, neck aches from bending to reach her, but still pleasure thrums through his veins, pools low in his stomach, and he doesn't want it to end. 

He can feel her trembling beneath him, hear her whimpering in his ear, and when he pulls back to kiss her he can see the tears in her eyes, threatening to spill over, mascara streaks from the ones that already have, and it's not—

He'd be lying if he said he didn't want to hurt her but not like this, never like this.

When he stills, hesitating, she makes a noise of protest, something high and needy in the back of her throat, digs her heels into his ass as best she can, trying to pull him deeper inside, so he lets her, watches how she bites her lip when he's all the way in, how she breaks apart when he pulls back out.

And he was wrong before in the cemetery, he thinks, because this... _this_ is her confession. This is what she can't show anyone else. 

That she needs it just as much as he does.

That she's just as fucked up as he is.

So he kisses her. It's softer than it has any right to be, and he can taste the salt from her tears on her lips, can feel the heat of her skin against his, and this time when he pushes back in, he does it slowly, letting her feel every inch of him, until he's flush against her.

He's still got his lips pressed to hers, loves how her mouth falls open when he starts grinding his hips, and there's something about the way she gasps when he gets his hand between them, thumb on her clit, that cuts right through him.

By the time she's clenching around him, shaking through her orgasm, he can almost forget everything they've done to each other, and when his hips start stuttering, and that white hot pleasure explodes through him, he can almost forgive her.

And then it's over.

He can't be sure how long they stay like that— him softening inside her, face pressed into her neck.

Her with her legs wrapped around him, one hand resting against the back of his skull, the other clinging to his shoulder. 

It's not comfortable, not even a little bit, but he doesn't move until he feels his phone vibrating in his pocket, where his pants are pushed down past his knees, and reality reminds him he can't be doing this with her. 

And then it's really over.

He slips out of her and tries to tug his pants back up but he has to climb back over to his seat to get them all the way up and zipped. Their wet clothes are strewn across the backseat where they threw them and it takes a few minutes to collect them, get them sorted enough to put back on. 

He doesn't miss the fact that there's nothing for her to clean herself up with, that she pulls her panties up over and through the evidence of what they did where it's clinging to her thighs.

Wonders if she'll just throw them out or if she'll think of him every time she puts them on.

Hopes her husband finds them before she can do anything about it, hopes he realizes just how much Elizabeth ain't his.

He doesn't say any of it, just drives, heading back to that big suburban house she's barely managed to refurnish, and he can't even remember why he was looking for her in the first place. She doesn't ask though, just sits there in her her damp clothes, eyes fixed on the dark nothingness that rolls by outside. 

When he brings the car to a stop in front of her house, she doesn't even look at him before reaching for the handle, and it shouldn't hurt cause nothing's changed, not really, but still, it twists inside, the way she's always leaving him.

Except maybe this time she's not because before she slides all the way out, she turns back, not enough to look him in the eye, just enough so he can hear it.

"I did what I had to."

And he knows it won't ever really be over, not with them.

**Author's Note:**

> what are seatbelts amirite?
> 
> i'm on tumblr at hypermania.tumblr.com if you wanna come say hi!


End file.
